Chapter V: Part II (1)

The sun was high within the lift
Afore the French King raise;
And syne he louped intil his sark,
And warslit on his claes.

"Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page,
Gae up until the toun;
And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper,
Be sure ye bring him doun."

And he has met wi' the auld harper;
O but his een were reid;
And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees
Was singing in his heid.

"Alack! alack!" the harper said,
"That this should e'er hae been!
I daurna gang before my liege,
For I was fou yestreen."

"It's ye maun come, ye auld harper:
Ye daurna tarry lang;
The King is just dementit-like
For wanting o' a sang."

And when he came to the King's chamber,
He loutit on his knee,
"O what may be your gracious will
Wi' an auld frail man like me?"

"I want a sang, harper," he said,
"I want a sang richt speedilie;
And gin ye dinna make a sang,
I'll hang ye up on the gallows tree."

"I canna do't, my liege," he said,
"Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!
But gin that I had got the words,
I think that I might mak the air."

"And wha's to mak the words, fause loon,
When minstrels we have barely twa;
And Lamartine is in Paris toun,
And Victor Hugo far awa?"

"The diel may gang for Lamartine,
And flee away wi' auld Hugo,
For a better minstrel than them baith
Within this very toun I know.

"O kens my liege the gude Walter,
At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER?
He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas,
And he is in the castle here."

The French King first he lauchit loud,
And syne did he begin to sing;
"My een are auld, and my heart is cauld,
Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King.

"Gae take to him this ring o' gowd,
And this mantle o' the silk sae fine,
And bid him mak a maister sang
For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine."

"I winna take the gowden ring,
Nor yet the mantle fine:
But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake,
And for a cup of wine."

The Queen was sitting at the cards,
The King ahint her back;
And aye she dealed the red honours,
And aye she dealed the black;

And syne unto the dourest Prince
She spak richt courteouslie;--
"Now will ye play, Lord Admiral,
Now will ye play wi' me?"

The dourest Prince he bit his lip,
And his brow was black as glaur;
"The only game that e'er I play
Is the bluidy game o' war!"

"And gin ye play at that, young man,
It weel may cost ye sair;
Ye'd better stick to the game at cards,
For you'll win nae honours there!"

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch,
Till the tears ran blithely doon;
But the Admiral he raved and swore,
Till they kicked him frae the room.

The harper came, and the harper sang,
And oh but they were fain;
For when he had sung the gude sang twice,
They called for it again.

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd,
In the days of auld langsyne;
When bauld King Henry crossed the seas,
Wi' his brither King to dine.

And aye he harped, and aye he carped,
Till up the Queen she sprang--
"I'll wad a County Palatine,
Gude Walter made that sang."

Three days had come, three days had gane,
The fourth began to fa',
When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said,
"It's time I was awa!

"O, bonny are the fields o' France,
And saftly draps the rain;
But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower,
And greeting a' their lane.

"Now ye maun come to me, Sir King,
As I have come to ye;
And a benison upon your heid
For a' your courtesie!

"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere;
Ye sall na say me no;
And ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare
For that gawsy chield Guizot."

Now he has ta'en her lily-white hand,
And put it to his lip,
And he has ta'en her to the strand,
And left her in her ship.

"Will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried,
"Will ye come kindly here,
When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing,
In the spring-time o' the year?"

"It's I would blithely come, my Lord,
To see ye in the spring;
It's I would blithely venture back
But for ae little thing.

"It isna that the winds are rude,
Or that the waters rise,
But I loe the roasted beef at hame,
And no thae puddock-pies!"

The Massacre of the Macpherson.

[FROM THE GAELIC.]

I.

Fhairshon swore a feud
Against the clan M'Tavish;
Marched into their land
To murder and to rafish;
For he did resolve
To extirpate the vipers,
With four-and-twenty men
And five-and-thirty pipers.

II.

But when he had gone
Half-way down Strath Canaan,
Of his fighting tail
Just three were remainin'.
They were all he had,
To back him in ta battle;
All the rest had gone
Off, to drive ta cattle.

III.

"Fery coot!" cried Fhairshon,
"So my clan disgraced is;
Lads, we'll need to fight,
Pefore we touch the peasties.
Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Coming wi' his fassals,
Gillies seventy-three,
And sixty Dhuinewassails!"

IV.

"Coot tay to you, sir;
Are you not ta Fhairshon?
Was you coming here
To fisit any person?
You are a plackguard, sir!
It is now six hundred
Coot long years, and more,
Since my glen was plundered."

V.

"Fat is tat you say?
Dare you cock your peaver?
I will teach you, sir,
Fat is coot pehaviour!
You shall not exist
For another day more;
I will shoot you, sir,
Or stap you with my claymore!"

VI.

"I am fery glad,
To learn what you mention,
Since I can prevent
Any such intention."
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Gave some warlike howls,
Trew his skhian-dhu,
An' stuck it in his powels.

VII.

In this fery way
Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,
Who was always thought
A superior person.
Fhairshon had a son,
Who married Noah's daughter,
And nearly spoiled ta Flood,
By trinking up ta water:

VIII.

Which he would have done,
I at least pelieve it,
Had ta mixture peen
Only half Glenlivet.
This is all my tale:
Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye!
Here's your fery good healths,
And tamn ta whusky duty!

[The six following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;
With palpitating hand I take thee now,
Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,
And with a thrill of song half deified,
I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.
There shall they bide, till he who follows next,
Of whom I cannot even guess the name,
Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext
Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,--
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard" pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke.

The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T--- B--- M---.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen? And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!--

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?' 'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight--we may not tarry long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn--'Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; Then up and spake young Tennyson--'Who's here that fears for death? 'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

'Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;-- For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German _Dichters_ too, If none of British song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;' Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!' 'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!' 'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, {160} good at need,-- 'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,-- Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! 'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,-- The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. 'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. {162}

'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?' Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' 'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. 'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe. 'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!'

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"

The Royal Banquet.

BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---.

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

"What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, "God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!"

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?"

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside? Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!"

"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!

"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights--" Then Wellington up sprung, "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!"

"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I myself--" Then rose the cry--"A song, a song from Brougham!" He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room.

The Bard of Erin's Lament.

BY T--- M---RE, ESQ.

Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy
Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,
While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,
And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:
And the harp of my country--neglected it slept--
In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;
From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept
Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend.

The Laureate.

BY A--- T---.

Who would not be The Laureate bold, With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily! And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely! Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other--"Just look down there, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teasingly, sneezingly. Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day? Oh, that would be the post for me! With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And empty at evening a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be
The Laureate bold,
With my butt of sherry
To keep me merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

A Midnight Meditation.

BY SIR E--- B--- L---.

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams-- There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams, That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other flam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed: Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

Montgomery.

A POEM.

Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him and before; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,-- So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,-- That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed!

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia's tide By classic Isis and more classic Clyde; I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; I, who on mount--no, "honey-dew" have fed; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; I, who have done what Milton dared not do,-- I fear no rival for the vacant throne; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!

Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-- I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; One down, another on, I'll smash them all!

Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; This brow alone is privileged to wear The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.

Little John and the Red Friar.

A LAY OF SHERWOOD.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

The deer may leap within the glade;
The fawns may follow free--
For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid
Beneath the greenwood tree.

And broken are his merry, merry men,
That goodly companie:
There's some have ta'en the northern road
With Jem of Netherbee.

The best and bravest of the band
With Derby Ned are gone;
But Earlie Grey and Charlie Wood,
They stayed with Little John.

Now Little John was an outlaw proud,
A prouder ye never saw;
Through Nottingham and Leicester shires
He thought his word was law,
And he strutted through the greenwood wide,
Like a pestilent jackdaw.

He swore that none, but with leave of him,
Should set foot on the turf so free:
And he thought to spread his cutter's rule,
All over the south countrie.
"There's never a knave in the land," he said,
"But shall pay his toll to me!"

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good
As ever stepped the ground,
He levied mail, like a sturdy thief,
From all the yeomen round.
"Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me
Seven pence from every pound!"

Now word has come to Little John,
As he lay upon the grass,
That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood
Without his leave to pass.

"Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page!
Ben Hawes, come tell to me,
What manner of man is this burly frere
Who walks the wood so free?"

"My master good!" the little page said,
"His name I wot not well,
But he wears on his head a hat so red,
With a monstrous scallop-shell.

"He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope,
To put the outlaws down.

"I saw him ride but yester-tide,
With his jolly chaplains three;
And he swears that he has an open pass
From Jem of Netherbee!"

Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad,
And broken it o'er his knee;
"Now may I never strike doe again,
But this wrong avenged shall be!

"And has he dared, this greasy frere,
To trespass in my bound,
Nor asked for leave from Little John
To range with hawk and hound?

"And has he dared to take a pass
From Jem of Netherbee,
Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws
Pertain of right to me?

"O were he but a simple man,
And not a slip-shod frere!
I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope
Above yon tangled brere.

"O did he come alone from Jem,
And not from our father the Pope,
I'd bring him into Copmanshurst,
With the noose of a hempen rope!

"But since he has come from our father the Pope,
And sailed across the sea,
And since he has power to bind and lose,
His life is safe for me;
But a heavy penance he shall do
Beneath the greenwood tree!"

"O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood,
"O tarry, master mine!
It's ill to shear a yearling hog,
Or twist the wool of swine!

"It's ill to make a bonny silk purse
From the ear of a bristly boar;
It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse,
When the way lies him before.

"I've walked the forest for twenty years,
In wet weather and dry,
And never stopped a good fellowe,
Who had no coin to buy.

"What boots it to search a beggarman's bags,
When no silver groat he has?
So, master mine, I rede you well,
E'en let the friar pass!"

"Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John,
"Thou japest but in vain;
An he have not a groat within his pouch,
We may find a silver chain.

"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck,
As truly he may be,
He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws
Without the leave of me!"

Little John has taken his arrows and bow,
His sword and buckler strong,
And lifted up his quarter-staff,
Was full three cloth yards long.

And he has left his merry men
At the trysting-tree behind,
And gone into the gay greenwood,
This burly frere to find.

O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere,
He took his way alone--
Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear
This geste of Little John.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood,
When the little birds are singing,
When the buck is belling in the fern,
And the hare from the thicket springing!

'Tis merry to hear the waters clear,
As they splash in the pebbly fall;
And the ouzel whistling to his mate,
As he lights on the stones so small.

But small pleasaunce took Little John
In all he heard and saw;
Till he reached the cave of a hermit old
Who wonned within the shaw.

"_Ora pro nobis_!" quoth Little John--
His Latin was somewhat rude--
"Now, holy father, hast thou seen
A frere within the wood?

"By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose,
I guess you may know him well;
And he wears on his head a hat so red,
And a monstrous scallop-shell."

"I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said,
"In this cell for thirty year,
Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds,
The face of such a frere!

"An' if ye find him, master mine,
E'en take an old man's advice,
An' raddle him well, till he roar again,
Lest ye fail to meet him twice!"

"Trust me for that!" quoth Little John--
"Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh;
"There never was man of woman born,
That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!"

Then Little John, he strutted on,
Till he came to an open bound,
And he was aware of a Red Friar,
Was sitting upon the ground.

His shoulders they were broad and strong,
And large was he of limb;
Few yeomen in the north countrie
Would care to mell with him.

He heard the rustling of the boughs,
As Little John drew near;
But never a single word he spoke,
Of welcome or of cheer:
Less stir he made than a pedlar would
For a small gnat in his ear!

I like not his looks! thought Little John,
Nor his staff of the oaken tree.
Now may our Lady be my help,
Else beaten I well may be!

"What dost thou here, thou strong Friar,
In Sherwood's merry round,
Without the leave of Little John,
To range with hawk and hound?"

"Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar,
"Of any leave, I trow;
That Little John is an outlawed thief,
And so, I ween, art thou!

"Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And I bring a rope from our father the Pope,
To put the outlaws down."

Then out spoke Little John in wrath,
"I tell thee, burly frere,
The Pope may do as he likes at home,
But he sends no Bishops here!

"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said,
"Up, and away, right speedilie;
An it were not for that cowl of thine,
Avenged on thy body I would be!"

"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar,
"And let my cowl no hindrance be;
I warrant that I can give as good
As ever I think to take from thee!"

Little John he raised his quarter-staff,
And so did the burly priest,
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree
A stricken hour at least.

But Little John was weak of fence,
And his strength began to fail;
Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down,
Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.

"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar,
Now rest beneath the thorn,
Until I gather breath enow,
For a blast at my bugle-horn!"

"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said,
"Since that is your propine,
But, an you sound your bugle-horn,
I'll even blow on mine!"

Little John he wound a blast so shrill,
That it rang o'er rock and linn,
And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all,
Came lightly bounding in.

The Friar he wound a blast so strong
That it shook both bush and tree,
And to his side came witless Will,
And Jem of Netherbee;
With all the worst of Robin's band,
And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do,
When he saw the others come;
So he twisted his quarter-staff between
His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said,
"There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me;
I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,
But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name,
You shall have ample leave to bide;
With pasture also for your Bulls,
And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said;
"I'll call myself just what I please.
My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John;
"But surely you will not object,
If I and all my merry men
Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst,
Nor Bishop of London town,
Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass,
Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw Little John, who is the son-in-law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John--
God save our noble Queen!
But, Lordlings, say--Is Sherwood now
What Sherwood once hath been? {200}

The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle.

A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.

BY MRS E--- B--- B---.

There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West,
Where its bravest and its best find their grave.
Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep
In the waters still and deep,
Not a wave!

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall,
Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond;
And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well,
Makes a kind of tidal swell
On the pond!

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day,
With the odour of the hay floating by;
And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring,
Chime by chime, ting by ting,
Droppingly.

Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track,
To the confine deep and black of the tomb;
And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass,
Where the dandelion has
Such a bloom.

Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,
A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn;
And I read in letters cold--Here.lyes.Launcelot.ye.bolde,
Off.ye.race.off.Bogile.old,
Glasgow.borne.

He.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte.
Here the letters failed outright, but I knew
That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford,
Lay there beneath the sward,
Wet with dew.

Time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day,
And around me, as I lay, all grew old:
Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown
No longer, like a crown,
O'er it rolled.

Sank the great Saint Rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk;
Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers;
And a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes,
With its men-at-arms in rows,
On the towers.

And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear,
Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.
And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall,
"Wake ye up! my comrades all,
From your rest!

"For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good
In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream;
And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,
Though they have not beat the drum,
It would seem!

"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford
With partisan and sword, just beneath;
Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!
We'll back the bonny bears
To the death!"

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not,
Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed;
On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood,
With his arms across him glued
On his breast.

And he muttered, "Foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first?
George of Gorbals, do thy worst--for I swear,
O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride,
From my undissevered side
Thou shalt tear!

"Ho, herald mine, Brownlee! ride forth, I pray, and see,
Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend!
Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish,
With his bloodhounds in the leash,
Shall attend."

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without,
Then a wild and savage shout rose amain,
Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse,
He sank from off his horse
On the plain!

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish,
With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee.
"Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord,
Thou caitiff thrice abhorred,
Shame on thee!

"Ho, bowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon the foes
Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts.
Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,
And a gallows for the slave
Who revolts!"

Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted,
While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host;
You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers,
As at night they dressed the steers
For the roast.

And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin
Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath;
In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,
Nor did Neish the spell-word, beef,
Dare to breathe.

To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame,
With the rosy evening flame on her face.
She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground,
Who but little penance found,
Saying grace!

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,
"One short and little word may I speak?
I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,
Or mark the sallow hue
Of thy cheek!

"I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath
Is less against us both than at me.
Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe
An arrow from the bow,
Like Brownlee!"

"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame,
Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light:
While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand,
Heart to heart, hand in hand!"
Said the knight.

"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host
Shall discover to their cost rather hard!
Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie,
And heap it, d'ye see,
In the yard.

"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some,
Besides the beer and mum, extra stout;
Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks,
As also range the flasks,
Just without.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears
In the very inmost tiers of the drink.
Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,
Since their time is rather short,
I should think!"

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,
Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;
Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore,
Till they stumbled on the floor,
O'er the fluids.

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew
From his belt an iron screw, in his fist;
George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain,
And indeed was rather fain
To assist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,
And silence did command, all below--
"Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,
In the centre of thy hold,
Pledge me now!

"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine,
I drink to the decline of thy race!
Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run,
Never more shall setting sun
Gild thy face!

"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze,
Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up;
And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high!
What, brother! art thou dry?
Fill my cup!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not,
But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore;
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,
"Never sure did thirsty fish
Swallow more!

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun;
It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!"
"Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum--
They are working at the mum,
And the gin!"

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier
Twenty castles dancing near, all around;
The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,
And sinuous as a snake
Moved the ground.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some,
But all agreed the rum was divine.
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,
Who preferred to fill his horn
Up with wine!

Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall;
Lead them straight unto the hall, down below:
Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide,
And together we shall ride
On the foe!"

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle,
That few would 'scape to tell how they fared;
And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares,
Looked terrible as bears,
All prepared.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish,
And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright--
"Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast;
Smite them down unto the last!"
Cried the knight.

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout,
As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.
On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern,
As the deer treads down the fern,
In the vale!

Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide
To see the Bogle ride in his haste;
He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!"
And always cleft the foe
To the waist.

"George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord;
Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!"
But he met with no reply, and never could descry
The glitter of his eye
Anywhere.

Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down,
Like a field of barley mown in the ear:
It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood,
With Neish all bathed in blood,
Panting near.

"Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks,
And place the empty flasks on the floor;
George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum,
To taste our beer and rum
Any more!"

So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks,
And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;
But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek,
For he swore he heard a shriek
Through the door.

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame
To the face of squire and dame in the hall,
The cellarer went down to tap October brown,
Which was rather of renown
'Mongst them all.

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,
But his liquor would not flow through the pin.
"Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles,
But a sound, as if of buckles,
Clashed within.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer:
What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey,
In the arms he bore the day
Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;
Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,
And now, I think, I must
Take my leave!

ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following passage is taken:--

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case. There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything. We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the 'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent. Like Signor Benedick, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick--but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works. The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph of art--repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other. Robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]

The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
On the pavement cold he lay,
Around him closed the living tide;
The butcher's cad set down his tray;
The pot-boy from the Dragon Green
No longer for his pewter calls;
The Nereid rushes in between,
Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
They raised him gently from the stone,
They flung his coat and neckcloth wide--
But linen had that Hebrew none.
They raised the pile of hats that pressed
His noble head, his locks of snow;
But, ah, that head, upon his breast,
Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died,
Struck with overwhelming qualms
From the flavour spreading wide
Of some fine Virginia hams.
Would you know the fatal spot,
Fatal to that child of sin?
These fine-flavoured hams are bought
AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!"

Parr's Life Pills.

'Twas in the town of Lubeck, A hundred years ago, An old man walked into the church, With beard as white as snow; Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, Nor dim his eagle eye: There's many a knight that steps the street, Might wonder, should he chance to meet That man erect and high!

When silenced was the organ, And hushed the vespers loud, The Sacristan approached the sire, And drew him from the crowd-- "There's something in thy visage, On which I dare not look; And when I rang the passing bell, A tremor that I may not tell, My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger? Our ancient annals say, That twice two hundred years ago Another passed this way, Like thee in face and feature; And, if the tale be true, 'Tis writ, that in this very year Again the stranger shall appear. Art thou the Wandering Jew?"

"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!" The wondrous phantom cried-- "'Tis several centuries ago Since that poor stripling died. He would not use my nostrums-- See, shaveling, here they are! _These_ put to flight all human ills, These conquer death--unfailing pills, And I'm the inventor, PARR!"

Tarquin and the Augur.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving.
Gently glides the razor o'er his chin,
Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,
And with nasal whine he pitches in
Church extension hints,
Till the monarch squints,
Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!
From my dressing-table get thee gone!
Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?
There again! That cut was to the bone!
Get ye from my sight;
I'll believe you're right,
When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!"